


a whimper and a curse

by darlingraham



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 02, Angst, Fire, First Kiss, Hannibal is Hannibal, Implied Sexual Content, Kinda Dark, M/M, Mutual Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, but he is kinda sad, but they are problematic, so does hannibal, wildfire - Freeform, will graham is becoming, will just wants to be loved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 08:11:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13430589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingraham/pseuds/darlingraham
Summary: “I’d like to resume my therapy” Will had said.I’d like to kill you, he had meant.Watch the light die in your eyes as I wrap my hands around your throat. Hannibal had smiled, barely noticeable, just a slight twitch in the corners of his mouth, gone just as fast as it had appeared.But it was a smile nonetheless.-The events of season 2 takes a different turn as a wildfire threatens the city of Baltimore.





	a whimper and a curse

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know anything about wildfires, I don't know if anything i'm writing about that is accurate, but please just pretend that it is 100% accurate.
> 
> Wildfire definition: a large, destructive fire that spreads quickly. Sometimes reaches cities.
> 
> Heat waves are known to cause violent behaviour and aggression. Depression and lowered mood tend to increase with a rise in temperature.

_It didn’t rain. Hadn’t rained for a long time._

_The fire sparked quickly and without warning, suddenly filling the sky with red, angry clouds of smoke and flames._

_People were scared. Hannibal thought it was beautiful. Maybe Will thought so too._

-

Will Graham’s father had always told him that life ended not with a bang, but with a whimper. And a curse, he always added. Will wasn’t sure that it was right, wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be right, but his father had told him so, and his father was always right.

Will wasn’t even sure why he had thought about that as he had stood outside the door leading to Dr. Lecter’s office, dressed in a salmon shirt and a new haircut. He knew that Hannibal approved of it, noticed the way he took a double take at his appearance, how his mouth had opened slightly, something that would pass by unnoticed by anyone. Anyone but Will. He noticed Hannibal’s fast intake of breath as he danced around him, darting in and out of the doctor’s space, noticed his eyes turning dark, something so beautiful and so dark that Will knew that this was the right thing to do.

“I’d like to resume my therapy” Will had said. _I’d like to kill you_ , he had meant. _Watch the light die in your eyes as I wrap my hands around your throat_. Hannibal had smiled, barely noticeable, just a slight twitch in the corners of his mouth, gone just as fast as it had appeared.

But it was a smile nonetheless.

Will didn’t smile back, not even as he took his seat in the chair opposite of Hannibal’s, not even when he noticed the way they mirrored each other’s movements almost perfectly. It was almost strange, at the same time as it was incredibly familiar, to sit in front of him in this office. He had done it so many times before, have had countless conversations, conversations he could still hear whispers from, but it still felt like it was the very first time. Perhaps, in some ways, it was.

“Where shall we begin?”

This time, Will smiled back.

-

Will often dreamed about Hannibal.

At first, in a time Will almost didn’t remember, Hannibal’s presence had been like a guide. Urging and influencing, a hand on the shoulder and an anchor to grasp. Perhaps somewhat powerful, knowing, _calculating_ , but only around the edges. It hadn’t been particularly surprising, not even the first time, _especially_ not the first time. It had been expected. Strange dreams had long been a current in Will’s life, the encephalitis making them more vivid, but now they seemed… _intimate._

What once had been his guide had turned into something dark and unpredictable, teeth bared in a smile as he circled around Will’s form, his touch cold against his shoulder blades. Will often dreamed of himself in Hannibal’s home, lying on his table, like a buffet presented for the monster to feast on. He would close his eyes as he felt the cold touch of Hannibal’s fingertips against the naked skin of his waist, would barely flinch as he felt the first sharp bite against his belly.

Sometimes, only sometimes, he would lift his head and look down, only to meet Hannibal’s dark gaze, blood around his mouth and his own stomach wide open and bleeding. Hannibal always smiled as Will threw his head back, biting his teeth and gripping the table edges until his knuckles were white. Will never told him to stop.

“ _Good boy_.” He would purr, and Will would weep. From pain or from pleasure, he never knew.

Other times Hannibal was merely passive, considering him from afar. As if he was waiting, waiting for Will to make his move, to give in to their twisted game of cat and mouse. Will would circle around him, letting his fingertips graze the barrel of the gun in his pocket. How easy it would be. So incredibly easy. To watch the surprise in Hannibal’s eyes as he shoots, to hear him sigh in pain and betrayal. To feel the power and pleasure as Hannibal clutches his hand to his - both literally and metaphorically - broken heart.

Or to shoot him in the leg, only to make him defenceless, and then to sit astride him and hit him over and over and over again, blood covering Hannibal’s smiling lips. _Intimate_.

Will always did. He would injure him bloody, and he would hiss at the way Hannibal smiled in victory.

And every time, _every single time_ , he woke up, panting and hair damp with sweat, he tried not to think about the obscene bulge he knew would be visible through his boxers.   

-

Hannibal sometimes thought about Mischa.

He had a room reserved for her in his memory palace, always had, but it wasn’t always that he ventured into her space. She always smiled, held out her small fingers towards him, and sometimes, only sometimes, she laughed. But then she always cried.

Hannibal had drawn her like that sometimes, tried to let the chalk give back the life that once was taken, give her the tears she should have cried and the laughs she should have enjoyed. However, he was never satisfied, the drawings never _good enough_ for her. It was as if it wasn’t even a pale mirroring of his memory, it was as if it was an entirely different girl.

When he was young he had said that the world simply couldn’t offer enough beauty, that it simply _wasn’t enough_. So he created beauty. Arranged limbs to the perfect angle, filled empty stomachs with red roses and recreated Italian art with the bodies of those who were unworthy of beauty.

But then he had met Will Graham. And he had found Will Graham beautiful.

-

“Are you feeling nervous?” Hannibal had asked, barely minutes after the beginning of their next appointment, and Will could hear his amusement, could feel his smile at the nape of his neck. Will hadn’t answered, hadn’t stopped drumming his fingers against the desk, had just stared right in front of him, almost as if he was staring at the frames of his glasses rather than the actual room. Tap, tap, tap.

“Will.” He could hear the annoyance beginning to tint Hannibal’s voice, and he noticed how he shifted ever so slightly in the corner of his eye, noticed how close he was to letting his demeanour slip. _His person suit_. Will almost thought it was strange how he hadn’t noticed it before, hadn’t noticed the slight twitches in Hannibal’s eyes that he couldn’t repress, right before he returned to his _polite_ and _charming_ self. Maybe that was why Will didn’t stop, why he just let the frequency and volume of the drumming increase by each tap. Maybe it was the heat.

He couldn’t escape he heat.

“ _Will_.”

“What are you going to do about it? Kill me?” It was meant to be challenge, the last straw, meant to bring the monster inside Hannibal out, if only for a second. Only to see a small glimpse behind his dark eyes, only to see that it was actually _there_. But when Will lifted his gaze and met Hannibal’s, he realised that Hannibal had simply smiled.

“Careful, darling. Do not jump into an ocean if you cannot swim.” Hannibal’s voice didn’t feel warm, didn’t feel reassuring, not like it once had, not like it had used to. And perhaps Will allowed himself to mourn that for a second, only for a second, before he finally turned his gaze away and let the glasses cover his eyes _. I care about your life_ , he remembered Hannibal telling him, only distantly, in what felt like a lifetime ago. He had almost believed him.

“Fuck you.” And suddenly, in an instance, Hannibal had moved. He was quick, too quick, and before Will knew what had happened he was being pressed into the desk, so hard that the edge of it cut into his back. Pain had made its way through his body, so sharply it had stung, and he had clenched his teeth as he let out a sound of discomfort.

“That’s right, Will. Moan for me.” Hannibal was calm, way too calm, and his eyes were dark as he pressed Will into the desk and smiled at the way he squirmed. “Good boy.”

Will had almost been disgusted with how fragile he sounded, how it reflected how broken he felt. And this wasn’t what was supposed to happen, not even close, Will _knew_ that. He had told Jack that he was a good fisherman, he truly was, and he was supposed to seduce Hannibal, lure him in and stick the hook into his cheek. Break him. _Kill him_ , a dark voice whispered.

He was not supposed to gasp at the way Hannibal called him a good boy.

And Hannibal’s eyes had almost been friendly, as if he didn’t notice what he was doing, didn’t notice how the air had changed. As if his intention had been something entirely else. But then...

But then Hannibal Lecter had laughed.

It was a breathy laugh, short, just barely a hitch of amusement, but it still made his eyes twinkle, and his odd, sharp teeth to become visible between his parted lips. And suddenly Hannibal was everywhere, too close, way too close, and Will could barely breathe. He could feel Hannibal’s hot breath against his face, his thigh pressed between Will’s parted legs, and he could feel Hannibal Lecter hard against his hip. And maybe, just maybe, Hannibal could feel that Will was hard too, because suddenly he could feel Hannibal’s lips against his own.

Hannibal’s wet tongue trailed the outline of Will’s lips, before he ran a hand through Will’s messy curls, and pulled sharply to make him gasp, allowing Hannibal to slip his tongue into his mouth. And though Will wouldn’t ever admit it, he moaned at the way Hannibal nipped at his bottom lip and thrust his tongue in possessively, exploring his mouth and marking him as his. He tried not to think about the way the doctor smirked at his moan.

“Do you want me to stop?” Hannibal had asked sometime when the air had grown thin, sometime after Will had started to run his hands up Hannibal’s waist. Will didn’t answer, he didn’t know, and perhaps, perhaps he just didn’t care. He kissed him back.

Pride and arousal coursed through Will when he heard Hannibal groan, and in some dim corner of his mind he registered the way he was eagerly pressing up against him. He knew what he must look like, knew how wrong it was, knew that he was supposed to catch him, trick him, _kill him_ , not kiss him and _moan_ and hold on to him like it was the only thing that mattered. But he didn’t care, couldn’t care, not when he could feel the need and want in Hannibal, could feel the muscles he hid beneath his tailored suits as he gripped him. Not when he could feel Hannibal’s tongue sliding against his own.

And when the clock struck eight, signalising the end of their appointment, Hannibal was gone just as quickly as he suddenly had been there, leaving Will with just a dull throbbing ache between his legs and the pale memory of Hannibal’s lips.

-

The very first thing Hannibal saw in the mornings were Will Graham. It was like the picture of him had made a permanent home behind Hannibal’s eyelids, like a constant reminder, like a symphony always stuck in his head. But it was never the same as _actually_ seeing him, as being able to observe him and _admire_ him. He was always watching him, looking at him instead of where he was going. Will never did the same.

Hannibal wondered if maybe it had always been like that, that as soon as he had seen Will’s curls and wicked smile the rest of the world had simply disappeared. _Eyes are distracting_ , he had told him, told him that very first day, and Hannibal had smiled. He believed that the difference between his past and his future was Will Graham, after him everything had changed, and yet, it felt like it always had been like this, like nothing had happened at all.

And when Will had sat down in front of him in his office, turning his head away in something akin to shame, Hannibal had noticed the faded, almost unrecognizable, love bites on his throat. It reminded him of the matching bruises he knew was under Will’s shirt, red and strikingly beautiful, the ones that were there because of his own hands. Because of him.

He had hummed when he followed the contour of his sharp jawline, and his long, milky throat, smooth just like the finest china. He had sighed when he thought about how he wanted to destroy it just as much as he wanted to caress it. And then, and only then, he had smiled when he realised he wanted to feel the hot press of his lips against his own again.

And after Will had left, after having avoided Hannibal’s eyes and kept his head down, almost in a submissive matter, Hannibal had sharpened his pencil and had drawn Will with blood on his face and a mixture of smoke and fire around his naked body.

-

Will had felt… dirty. _Filthy_. Perhaps it was because he stood in a scrub, his hand resting in a puddle of detergent. Perhaps it was because Hannibal was pressed against him, murmuring incoherent poems into his neck.

His knee had still hurt, hurt after having bumped it into a wall, in a corridor just outside the lab, when Hannibal without warning had pulled him into the scrub. He hadn’t apologised. Will hadn’t expected him to.

“Are you afraid, Will?” Hannibal had asked as he closed the door to the scrub. “Are you afraid that I can give you what you ache for?”

Will hadn’t answered, perhaps hadn’t even listened, perhaps he just didn’t want to hear it. He tried to remind himself that this didn’t have to mean anything, _didn’t_ mean anything. Wouldn’t disrupt his plans. _You can still kill him,_ will _still kill him_ , a dark voice whispered.

“Tell me to stop.” Hannibal had said as he turned the light off, leaving them to fumble for each other’s skin in the darkness. _Haven’t you always?_ And Will knew, _knew_ , that if he were to tell him to stop, Hannibal would, would remove his hands from Will’s hips as if electrified, would leave the scrub without any hesitation. All Will had to do was to say the words, and he could.

He didn’t.

“I hate you.” He had said instead. And he did, he truly did, but with Hannibal caressing his skin as if he was worshipping, Will suddenly couldn’t tell if he hated him as much as he _wanted_ to hate him. Didn’t know if he wanted to kill him as much as he loved to fantasise about it, not as much as he had used to. And, perhaps most of all, he didn’t, _couldn’t_ , know why he felt such calm in the arms of a killer. Why he thrived in and demanded his attention, why he sighed at the touch of his skin.

“I know you do, darling.”

Hannibal had smiled down at him then, out of pity or amusement, or something entirely else, Will couldn’t really tell, but he smiled in something akin to a snarl which made his teeth visible. Will thought about how he wanted to trace those teeth with his tongue. He could, he knew he could. Could just drag Hannibal closer by his tie, tilt his head just right and force his mouth open by biting his lips, pressing himself against his solid form. He could.

He did.

Hannibal stilled at first, surprised, hands hovering uncertain in the air, but then he hummed his approval and returned the kiss with almost a feral need. And _this_ , Will thought, this was what made him _feel_. Maybe, just maybe, he wanted to stay like this forever, wanted to feel Hannibal snarl against his cheek, wanted to bathe in the attention of FBI’s most wanted killer, wanted to feel _wanted_. And when Hannibal palmed him through his jeans, Will was suddenly certain.

He let out a breathy sigh, and that very evening he killed Randall Tier and presented his body at Hannibal’s table.

-

_The fire is spreading. Attempts to stop it has failed._

The citizens of Baltimore had gotten scared as the words echoed from the radios and televisions, pictures from the rapidly growing fire filling the front pages of the newspapers. They had worried, demanded solutions, some had already started leaving days earlier. Hannibal had been… curious. Perhaps somewhat illuminated, fascinated by the symbolism and beauty of the flames. He thought of passion, pain, love and death. And as he glanced at Will Graham, dried blood still covering his face, he thought of rebirth.

_Thus, threatened areas will be evacuated._

It reminded him of the mythology of the phoenix, used as both a weapon and a form of rebirth, as the bird bursts into flames, and a baby phoenix is born from its ashes. If Hannibal squinted just so, he could almost see ashes in the shadows by Will’s feet. And that was when he knew, he _knew_ , that he could not leave Baltimore, could not leave and hence prevent Will’s rebirth, his final stage in his metamorphosis. Not yet.

And when he lifted his gaze and caught Will looking him directly in the eyes, he almost got the feeling that Will was feeling the same.

“Stay.” Hannibal had said as he cleaned the wounds on Will’s knuckles. Will had said no, turning his head away, almost in something akin to sorrow, but it was gone way too fast for Hannibal to be able to tell if it even had been there at all. He had said yes when Hannibal had kissed him, and he had said it three times more when Hannibal had smiled.

“Stay with me.” Hannibal had kissed his bloodied knuckles then, and Will’s eyes had fluttered closed as he hissed, in pain or something entirely else, Hannibal couldn’t tell, but his eyes had been almost completely black when they reopened.

“Where else would I go?”

-

It all had happened as if it was procedure. As if Will hadn’t contemplated his actions, his choices, the entire time. As if he hadn’t enjoyed her screams, didn’t feel remorse over her _not being dead_. As if he didn’t feel guilty over not killing her, at the same time as he felt guilty over wishing he had.

It ached. It ached when Hannibal had smiled down at him with pride, while Will knew he didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve the credit for something he didn’t do.

It ached when he had sat beside Freddie Lounds, her being very much _alive_ , something _she_ didn’t deserve. Not really.

But maybe, just maybe, what ached the most was that everyone was leaving Baltimore, and he just couldn’t bring himself to do the same. Not when Hannibal felt so, so _good_ , not when he purred and called Will such a good boy, not when Will had _promised_. And he had told himself so many times that it didn’t matter, shouldn’t matter, that he could, _should_ , do what he was always supposed to do. That he had already gained Hannibal’s trust, that he could kill him now, he could, and it would be so easy, so unspeakably, unfairly easy.

But then he always remembered that, perhaps, perhaps he just didn’t care. Perhaps none of it, nothing at all, even mattered anymore. Perhaps he just wanted to step out of his lifelong hiding, into the darkness, where he _knew_ Hannibal would welcome him, accept him, _see him_. Perhaps that was all that mattered.

“You really don’t know if you’re going to survive him, do you?”

Will hadn’t answered, because how could he? Freddie Lounds would never be able to understand that he was evolving, _becoming_ , that he had been wearing his own person suit all this time, and that _that_ part of him wasn’t going to survive this. Survive _him_.

And as Will had walked away from her, he could swear he left ashes burning in his footsteps. 

-

The flames made Will’s skin glow, it illuminated him, and Hannibal thought he had looked like a God as he watched the papers burn in the fireplace. If he followed Will’s gaze he could see his clock burning, the odd, disjointed numbers and pointers melting to ashes, soon to be forgotten. Hannibal had thought it was beautiful.

He had told Will of the chapel in Palermo, the single skull graven in the floor, and its severity, beautiful and timeless. He had told him that’s where they would go, that’s where they would create beauty, that’s where Will would always be able to find him, for as long as he lived. And, perhaps, even in death.

“What would you have done if Randall Tier had killed me?” Will had asked him then, turning his head away from the fire momentarily, meeting Hannibal’s gaze from across the office. Hannibal had cocked his head slightly, considering him, before he squinted his eyes in contemplation and strode across the room.

“Are you asking me if I would miss you?” He had almost sounded amused, and Will didn’t answer, wouldn’t give Hannibal that satisfaction. And, of course, Hannibal wouldn’t give it to Will either.

“The relationship between Achilles and Patroclus is a key element of the stories associated with the Trojan War, and many consider them lovers, though the exact nature remains unknown.” Hannibal had paused before continuing, smiling at everything at nothing at all, letting the tips of his fingertips graze the sleeves of Will’s shirt. “Patroclus’ death threw Achilles into a deep grief. The earlier steadfast and unbreakable Achilles agonizes, touching Patroclus’ dead body, smearing himself with ash and fasting.”

_Is that what you would do?_ Hannibal knew Will wanted to ask him, could see it in the way his eyes flickered, in the way his fingers twitched as if he wanted to reach for him. It reminded him of the time Will had told him that they were both alone without each other, how he had smiled almost shyly, ducking his head as if just realising the meaning of what he’s said. Hannibal had wanted to kiss him then, perhaps push him back against the wall, show him that they wouldn’t ever be alone.

“Achilles died not long after Patroclus.” Will had said instead, letting his fingers brush against Hannibal’s wandering hands, eyes caught on Hannibal’s, shining and glittering. Hannibal had hummed, allowing his thumb to trace the outline of Will’s lips, slowly pressing against his lower lip, and he had smiled when he felt Will press closer.

“He had nothing left to live for. The world no longer beautiful, with no one left to share it with.” Hannibal spoke, and the words were uttered like they had a thousand meanings, meanings Will didn’t know, didn’t understand. _Couldn’t_ understand, not yet. But they had time, time was all they had, and Hannibal remembered that as he felt Will tug at his hips, as he saw the remnants of the clock still burning in the fireplace.

“They were comrades who gladly faced danger and death, for and beside each other.” He whispered, aware of the fragile layer of tension between them, as Will laughed softly into his mouth. _Is that what this is?_ The question was written on Will’s parted lips, so clearly it was almost as if he had spoken the question out loud. Perhaps he had.

And as Hannibal pushed his nose into the warm skin of Will’s neck, clutching his hands in Will’s shirt, he could suddenly smell something that wasn’t there before, something that reminded him of chillies and chocolate, something _red_. Something that wasn’t supposed to be there. Something that was supposed to be _dead_.

And suddenly, slowly and then all at once, it felt as if the tumblers in his mind had fallen into place. It was as if he could finally see the cracks he hadn’t considered, as if he could see a dead woman who lives and a betrayer disguised as a lover. As if he could see Freddie Lounds laughing at him behind locked doors, very much _alive_.

Anger and betrayal coiled low in his belly, and he could almost swear he was vibrating, vibrating as the hurt of the revelation coursed through him. And as Will backed away from their embrace, once again staring at the burning flames, Hannibal studied his shadowed face, seeing not a hint of guilt, but contentment. And maybe, just maybe, he could see himself, Will having the great wrathful beast chained and _betrayed_. Hannibal wondered if Will thought of it as righteous.

But, of course, he supposed that Will always did promise him a reckoning.

-

Will was warm, so incredibly warm, and he felt so small when he desperately pressed even closer to Hannibal’s naked body. He could hear Hannibal’s heartbeat when he pressed his ear to his chest, the steady beating almost like a calming lullaby, and he could feel him breathing as he rested his arm against his soft belly. Idly, he wondered if he would know him blind, simply by the way his breath came and by the sound of his heartbeat.

Will had felt… Calm.

Perhaps it was the closest to a feeling of peace that he would ever get. Being held in the arms of the monster, forever protected, never alone. And as he dragged his fingers in the soft hairs covering Hannibal’s chest, he thought that maybe it wasn’t so bad.

“Why are you smiling?” Hannibal had asked as he had absentmindedly stroked his hand up and down Will’s spine, causing him to shudder under his touch. He wondered what they looked like, if they looked like lovers, like they were meant to be here. He pictured them together, fused into the sheets, limbs tangled together, pressed so closely it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Maybe he could get Hannibal to draw them like this, mouthing at each other’s skin, mapping the constellations of their bodies with their hands.

“Because I’ve finally decided something.” Will’s voice was soft, almost like a sigh, as he tried to count the dimples on Hannibal’s skin, the small, almost unrecognizable freckles spread across his body like a constellation of stars. Hannibal shuddered as he kissed the one on the warm skin of his shoulder.

“And what have you decided, darling?”

And if Will hadn’t been so lost in himself and the moment he would have noticed how the air had changed, how it had grown thin, with the words spoken. If Hannibal hadn’t thumbed small circles into the hollow of Will’s hips, making Will arch his back and moan softly, he would have noticed the tension in Hannibal’s voice. But everything had felt so perfect, so _perfect_ , and he suddenly couldn’t tell, couldn’t, just _couldn’t_.

“I forgive you.”

Hannibal had smiled then, and as Will buried his head in the crook of Hannibal’s shoulder he couldn’t see the tears brimming Hannibal’s eyes, couldn’t see how he had bared his teeth in betrayal as he felt Will nuzzle against him.

“But can you forgive yourself for forgiving me?”

Will had peered up at him then, confused, but couldn’t see the injury in Hannibal’s eyes, couldn’t picture the way Hannibal had thought about the moon, how he believed the moon too could feel what it is to be human, uncertain and alone. And as he fell asleep, small puffs of air escaping his parted lips onto Hannibal’s neck, Hannibal had almost smiled, almost, but the corners of his mouth had never quite reached his eyes.

-

A window had been left open, and a light breeze flowed into Will’s living room, ghosting over the parts of Hannibal’s skin that wasn’t buried in the sheets. But it wasn’t chilly like it should have been, it was warm, way too warm to be considered normal, and it filled the room with almost an unbearable heat. If Hannibal squinted just so, he could almost see smoke dancing into the room, ashes on the floor in a strange constellation.

He could also see Will Graham splayed naked across his chest, fingers running absently through his chest hair in his sleep.

And as he glanced at the swaying trees outside, casting terrifying shadows against the walls, Hannibal mused if he should just kill Will now that he had the chance. Now that he slept so innocently against his body, now that he was so fragile and unprepared. He thought about how love and death are, in many ways, very much the same. To love, one must die.

But Hannibal enjoyed the heat against his body, the scent of musk and forests, and the quiet puffs of air coming from Will’s pink lips. And perhaps he allowed himself to feel that, just for a second, a moment of pretending. A moment of pretending that it was _real_ , pretending that the truth and all their consequences didn’t exist.

But, as it seemed, all good things had to come to an end, and weeks of love would have to be forgotten in the hatred of a minute. But instead of doing what Hannibal thought he ought to do, perhaps to save himself or to punish, or both, he carefully wriggled out from Will’s embrace and tried to quietly step out of the bed. But, apparently, not quietly enough.

“Where are you going? It’s… three in the morning.” Will’s voice was groggy with sleep, and his curls had stuck to his forehead, making him look almost innocent. Hannibal had glanced at him then, wondered if Will could see in his eyes that he _knew_ , if he wondered why he didn’t do anything about it. But instead of answering he turned his head away and slowly began to pick up his clothes from the floor.

“Stay. Stay with me.” _Where else would I go?_ Will’s previous answer had echoed in his head, making him almost nauseous as he bent down to pick up his trousers. And while Will got up from the bed, sheets wrapped around him, Hannibal could practically _see_ the desperation in his eyes, and his insecurity in the way he didn’t seem to know how to hold his sheet.

“Go back to sleep, Will.”

He didn’t. Hannibal hadn’t expected him to.

And with every item of clothing that Hannibal picked up from the floor, the more desperate Will became. And despite an occasional smile, Hannibal ignored him, even as his ears rang from his screaming and his shoulder blades were streaked red from Will’s nails. And only when he felt the gun pressed into the back of his skull did he stop, only when he felt Will’s harsh breathing against the nape of his neck. He didn’t wince as Will released the safety.

“Do you believe that life ends with a whimper and a curse?”

And for the very first, and last, time, he had rendered Hannibal Lecter speechless. For the first time he saw Hannibal at a loss for words, not quite knowing what to answer, not quite knowing how to proceed. He had asked a question that Hannibal hadn’t already contemplated a million times in his memory palace, made a move he hadn’t already predicted.

And when he had turned to face Will, gun still pressing into his head, he could see Will’s wide eyes staring at him, as if it was the most important question that he would ever ask, as if the answer would form his entire life. Hannibal hadn’t smiled, not even almost.

“I believe that your life will end exactly how you deserve it to.” He had paused as he let his fingers brush the exposed skin of Will’s waist, as he slowly walked closer, allowing the gun to press a red mark against his forehead. “From fire you were born and from fire you shall die.”

Will hadn’t followed as he walked out the door.

-

Will wasn’t even sure why he was here, why he had followed so blindly, not even as Hannibal held his hand and stared at the red surroundings as if it was art. Perhaps more so, he didn’t know why he didn’t _ask_ , why he just let Hannibal lead him closer and closer to the fire without questioning, why it didn’t bother him that Hannibal might not stop.

Perhaps, however and whenever that ever happened, he trusted him. Trusted that he would do what he deemed best, for both of them, for their futures. And whatever doubt Will still possessed, they suddenly vanished as Hannibal finally stopped, finally turned to face him and smiled as if nothing was wrong, as if the fire didn’t surround them and the city wasn’t empty.

The flames were close now, and Will could almost see them reflect in Hannibal’s skin. It reminded him that Hannibal wasn’t cold, not like Will used to think, hadn’t ever been. He was warm, smelled like burning wood and mahogany, and his skin was hot, so hot, and that would always be the way Will would remember him.

He would remember him smiling.

Looking at Will with such adoration and silent appreciation, like he was a poem, the oldest and divinest of poetry. Like an unfinished painting, the colours not quite finished around the edges. Hannibal stroking his cheek as if he were both a poet and a painter.

“I love you.” Will had told him then, before he could stop himself, before he could realise the meaning of what he’s said. But he didn’t regret it, _couldn’t_ , not even when Hannibal didn’t answer, not even when he turned his gaze to the flames.

“Do you love me?”

And when Hannibal still didn’t answer, still couldn’t look at him, Will’s gaze turned fearful and filled with deepening clarity, because Will suddenly _understood_. Understood that Hannibal _knew_ , knew the truth about Will’s motives, the lies and the seduction, and the non-existent death of Freddie Lounds.  He knew, because _of course_ he knew. But he didn’t know enough, and he would die not knowing _enough_. And all Will wanted to do was to scream it out into the flames, scream it into Hannibal’s mouth, scream that he loved him and he always had, always will, and no divine force could stop them from conquering the world, that they wouldn’t be mere ashes burning on the ground. But the flames had already begun to caress his limbs, and he was so, so hot, and hotter still when Hannibal pressed his lips against his own.

And as he felt Hannibal’s burning hands on his cheeks, his soft tongue on his own and their salty tears running down their faces, he thought about how this would be their end. That in the end, all that was left was tears. How they cried for what they had become, for the lost months and for all that now would never be.

“What a cunning boy you are, mylimasis.”

Will heard himself whimper, and he cursed.

And he hated his father for being right.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, that was my very first fanfic. Hopefully it wasn't that bad?
> 
> Kudos and comments are highly appreciated, and constructive criticism is always welcomed!


End file.
